


got these feelings (that i'm tired of holding onto)

by ToAStranger



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Biblical References, Child Abuse, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 14:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: The first boy Billy falls in love with is Pedro.  He's eight years old, and Pedro is the point guard on his basketball team.His skin is dark and his smile is bright and he speaks in rapid Spanish. Runs circles around Billy. Makes him itch to chase and chase and chase.Draw me after you, let us run.





	got these feelings (that i'm tired of holding onto)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Under the Covers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12714576) by [ToAStranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger). 



> Bits and pieces of Billy's POV during UTC.

The first boy Billy falls in love with is Pedro.  He's eight years old, and Pedro is the point guard on his basketball team.  

 

His skin is dark and his smile is bright and he speaks in rapid Spanish. Runs circles around Billy. Makes him itch to chase and chase and chase. 

 

_ Draw me after you, let us run. _

 

Billy doesn't understand Pedro's mother, Mari, when she kisses him with red on her lips and says  _ ese muchacho está bueno _ to the other women watching them play on the cracked asphalt at the park down the street from his apartment, combing her fingers through Billy's curls, but he understands what Pedro means when he calls at the passing girls rollerskating by in bikinis -- much too old for either of them --  _ tú eres guapa! _

 

He understands because, when he looks at Pedro, sweaty and smiling, laughing with a gap in his teeth, he thinks the same thing. 

 

***

Billy's thirteen when he meets Brian. 

 

Brian's dad Frank is a military man -- keeps his hair shorn tight, and Brian's, too.  He laughs with Neil over beers at a barbeque, says Billy looks like a fag with his hair so long like that, but Neil waves him off and says  _ his mother is a hippy, real flower child, insists he grow it out.  _ His father says  _ my boy is a lady killer _ and it's true; Billy has girls falling all over him at school. 

 

He's tall and pretty and his momma taught him manners.  They make eyes at him in the halls at school, and Kelly Woods kissed him after walking home with him one day. 

 

Billy hated it. 

 

He doesn't tell his dad this. Has seen the way he spits out words like  _ queer _ and _ faggot _ and  _ nigger  _ whenever they drive through Hillcrest at anyone with a hint of dark skin. 

 

He doesn't tell his dad that he's traded kisses with Bobby Wynham from down the road, the boy with a big heart and skin as black as pitch, or that Frank's son is the prettiest boy he's ever seen, all big eyes and dark hair.  

 

He doesn't tell his dad that Brian, fourteen and too beautiful, had cornered Billy in the bathroom that same day and touched him and touched him and touched him.  Called Billy pretty,  _ like a girl _ , and then said  _ I'm not a fairy _ before leaving Billy lost and trembling and a bit ashamed.  He thinks his dad wouldn't like that. Wouldn't like knowing Billy had liked it. 

 

***

He's right. 

 

Because when Billy is fifteen and heartbroken and stupid, when his mom is still warm in the ground and his dad is drunk more often than not, Billy makes the mistake of bedding Oscar.  A boy in his grade, from the Dominican Republic, who teaches Billy words like  _ parigüayo  _ when Billy stands on the sidelines smoking for too long and teaches him how to move his hips when he dances in the dark with him during a bonfire at the beach. 

 

They're drunk and they're too loud, and Oscar's abuela catches them. She pulls Billy, half dressed and by the ear, out the door screaming  _ aquí yo no quiero maricones _ .  Oscar does nothing. 

 

Billy goes home with wet eyes and a broken heart.  He tells his dad, in short, broken words, when he asks  _ why are you crying like a pussy? _

 

This is the first time Neil hits him. 

 

***

This is not the last. 

 

***

 

At some point, probably a little after Billy turns sixteen, it stops being about  _ love _ .  Instead, it twists, something terrible and reckless and wicked inside him  _ thrums _ at the thought of getting away with it.  Of sneaking it under his dad’s nose. Of finding the prettiest thing he can get his hands on, watching it crumble to pieces between his fingers, and getting away with it.  

 

He leaves a trail of broken hearts.  And if he comes home with a hickey or a smear of lipstick on his collar from drag night at  _ Mo’s _ , his dad just claps him on the back for being a  _ good ol’ boy _ .  

 

He grins and bears it.  

 

But then-- but then, his dad gets  _ married _ .  Then, Billy gets a  _ step-sister _ .  Then, Billy has  _ responsibilities _ .  He’s gotta watch her.  Take her around everywhere he goes,  _ babysitting _ , and it’s really cramping his  _ style _ .  

 

And  _ then _ , while he’s treating the little brat to snow cones at the ferry landing, Billy gets a number from the guy five years his senior, Rafael, working the stand, takes it with a wink, because they’ve made out a time or two, hung out in the same circles, smoked the same joint, and Max  _ freaks _ .  

 

The problem is, his dad’s a bigot.  His step-mom’s a religious nut. Which makes sense as to why she married the brute-- misogyny reads as old school chivalry to Catholicism-- and as to why Max utterly  _ loses her shit _ when she sees a hint of homosexuality for the first time. 

 

She runs off.  Books it. Billy spends all afternoon hunting her down, can’t find her, and tries at home. 

 

That’s a mistake.  His dad is there. His step-mom is there.  Neil backhands him. Hard enough to make him taste copper, to bruise his cheek, to knock him breathless.  

 

When they finally find Max, she’s hiding under the docks at the ferry landing.  She’s crying about getting lost, about getting  _ scared _ , apologizing for running off, taking the blame, saying  _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just saw Billy and that guy and I just got-- _

 

And it’s not much, but it’s enough.  

 

Enough to condemn him.  Enough to make his dad see red.  To beat him black and blue. To get him to name names, to confess through bloody teeth to transgressions that are not sins, to get Neil heated enough to drag Billy down toJRafael's place and make him  _ watch _ what happens to  _ queers _ .  To get him so broken that the school takes notice, even a week later, and Neil uproots them.  Pulls him out of the sand and the sea by the scalp, drags him across the country, and tries to bury him in  _ All American Soil _ and  _ cow shit _ .  

 

Billy screams, inside, the whole way. 

 

***

 

He’s angry and seventeen when he sees Steve Harrington for the first time.  

 

The party is a rager, nothing like the bonfires he used to go to or the clubs he used to sneak into, but decent enough.  He spends it schmoozing the new crowds, finding out who’s  _ really _ at the top of the food chain-- nothing shows the social order of things like a proper party-- and getting drunk.  

 

This ginger, Tommy, peacocks like he’s the top of the pecking order.  He’s not. Billy can smell a sycophant from a mile away. Worse, he’s not even the kind of guy that actually  _ likes _ kissing ass.  

 

But he and his girl give him the lowdown; they’ve got big mouths.  That’s how Billy figures out that the  _ disgraced King Steve _ is still holding the crown.  The second he sees him, he understand why.

 

He’s the prettiest fucking thing Billy’s ever seen.  

 

Standing there, leaning off to the side of party, like some kind of  _ wallflower _ .  Like he could  _ ever  _ blend in.   _ Tú eres guapo,  _ Billy thinks, as he gets in his face, _ eres tan hermoso.   _

 

He wants to  _ have him _ .  Wants to  _ break him _ .  Wants to watch him crumble into pieces.  

 

But Harrington?  Harrington wants nothing to do with him.  

 

It makes him itch to chase and chase and chase.

 

_ Draw me after you, let us run. _

 

***

 

There’s so much that makes Billy angry, these days.  

 

His dad has him on a tight leash.  His step-sister is  _ his responsibility _ .  He’s gotta cart her around, take care of her, have tabs on her at all times and report back to his pops. 

 

But he knows.  He knows it’s just his dad keeping tabs on  _ him _ .  Knows if he’s gotta have eyes on Max, he’s got almost no wiggle room.  No room to  _ breathe _ .  

 

The only breath of fresh air he  _ gets _ is at school.  Even with the  _ cows _ , with the classes, with the  _ idiots _ trailing along like ducklings-- it’s a relief.  A place to  _ get away _ .  It’s even better on the court.  He’s better than all these podunk little white bread Indiana boys, but it’s still a  _ game _ .  A  _ chase _ .  

 

He’s always lived for the chase. 

 

Especially with Harrington there.  Ignoring him. Brushing him aside. Trying to act like he doesn’t  _ see _ Billy, too focused on the game, until Billy  _ makes him _ look at him.  

 

And then Billy’s  _ flying _ .  Soaring, every time Steve looks at him, and Billy  _ knows _ .  He knows it’s dangerous.  Knows he’s playing with  _ fire _ . 

 

Knows he’s gonna get  _ burnt _ .  

 

***

 

He’s fucking looking forward to it. 

 

***

 

But he’s still angry.  Still bottled up and thrashing to get free.  

 

When he finally does, it’s awful.  It’s nothing like he wanted, finally getting a taste of the fire in Steve, because he’s already burnt at the edges, singed from his father’s words and hands and disapproval.  There’s a scream at the back of his throat so loud his  _ teeth  _ ache. 

 

He spends it on Steve’s face.  Comes away bloody. 

 

Hates himself long after he comes to on the floor of some stranger’s house.  Hates himself long after he gets home, car dinged up, Max dirty in the backseat.  Hates himself long after his dad finishes yelling him into something smaller, younger, more frightened.  Hates himself long after the bruises on his knuckles heal. 

 

*** 

Hates himself long after the bruises on Steve’s face heals, too. 

 

***

 

He tries to forget about it, after that.  Knows he just has to bide his time, bite his tongue, muscle through it.  Has to stop being such a  _ maricón.  _  Man up.  Get over it. 

 

Pretty boys like Steve Harrington aren’t  _ news _ .  There’s nothing to get hung up on.  He doesn’t fall in love for a nice smile and a pretty face, anymore. 

 

***

 

Except he does.  

 

Because even though Billy puts that distance between them, even though he swallows back the urge to poke and prod and break, he still follows Steve with his eyes.  Watches him. Bites his tongue. Clenches his fists hard enough to remember why he’s not  _ chasing _ to begin with.  

 

He wants to, though.  He  _ wants _ to. 

 

Especially on days where Steve walks the halls of the school in that stupid jacket of his like a fucking  _ ghost _ .  

 

Billy’s good at pretending nothing’s wrong, though.  He’s good at hiding it-- it’s why he’s so good at  _ seeing it _ in other people-- even from himself.  So, he shoves it all down. Tucks it away.  Buries it deep and salts the earth of his heart.  

 

Refuses to bleed anymore over Steve Harrington’s pretty fucking face. 

 

***

 

It works until it doesn’t.  Billy tries to distract himself, he  _ does _ ; he goes out, he drinks, he parties.  He has fun. Lives life as much as he can in this small as shit town.  Feels a little less  _ cramped _ as time goes on.  Finds a  _ groove _ in the monotony.  

 

At least until the night he can’t  _ quite _ fake it enough for the girl in his lap at the party.  It’s frigid as fuck outside and Steve Harrington’s address is burning a fucking  _ hole  _ in his pocket.  Still has Steve’s bright, unbridled smile in his head from the basketball court swimming around.   _ Longs  _ for it.  Even though he’s the dick that knocked it off his face not long after, trying to put  _ distance _ between him and that pretty face.  

 

And the girl rocking against him is doing  _ nothing _ for him.

 

So, he checks out early and drives to Harrington’s.  Sits in the driveway for a long ass time before he finally gets the courage to jog up to the front doors.  Huffs at the  _ sight _ of the place.  So big it must have its own  _ area code _ .  

 

And then Steve opens the door, looking all  _ cozy _ and  _ warm _ and  _ happy _ .  And then he gets  _ inside _ .  

 

“This is a nice place you got here, Harrington.”  Billy says, gaze raking over it  _ all _ , taking his  _ fill _ because he doesn’t think he’ll get another  _ chance _ .  “No wonder they called you King.”

 

“Uh, yeah, I guess.” Steve doesn’t sound  _ sure _ , but Billy  _ knows _ it’s part of it; small towns have small minds. 

 

“That the only reason?” Billy asks.

 

Steve huffs out a sharp breath that might be a laugh, and Billy’s eyes narrow on him as he follows.  “Only reason I can think of.”

 

He can’t help but step up close.  Get a  _ strong _ pull of whatever rich ass  _ guero _ shampoo Steve uses.  Feels the heat of Steve’s body and nearly sways into it because he’s  _ cold _ and he’s a  _ liar _ .

 

“You know I hate it when you  _ lie _ , Harrington.”  He says, grins as Steve shudders, and shuts it down quick when Max and her wide eyed friends start hopping and hollering. 

 

It’s ruined that night because he gets to sit in Steve’s living room and watch him smile and laugh with the kids as they finish up their  _ game _ .  Ruined because, as he watches, he sees a  _ light _ in Steve’s eyes he hasn’t seen in a  _ while _ .  Ruined because he wants  _ more  _ of it. 

 

It works, hiding his desire from himself, until Steve gets in his face.  Until Billy sees that  _ fire _ , that  _ soul _ , and wants to chase it until it’s  _ his _ .  Even as he bristles and spits right back.  It works, until it doesn’t anymore.

 

***

 

After that, well, Billy just can’t help himself.   _ He’s like a dog with a bone,  _ Steve says.  He just can’t drop it. 

 

He bullies into Steve’s space.  In class, in the halls, on the court.  Anywhere he can, he wiggles his way in.  

 

And then the  _ game _ .  The game where they  _ win _ because Steve took his advice and fucking  _ ran  _ with it.  He fucking  _ nailed it _ .  And after, at the party, where Steve tries to hide against the wall again like he wants it to swallow him  _ whole _ .  

 

Billy’s like a  _ dog _ with a  _ bone _ .  And Steve’s the bone.  He just can’t fucking  _ drop it _ . 

 

He sidles up with a beer, a  _ peace offering _ , half tempted to lean in and call him a  _ parigüayo-- _ or to press in  _ closer _ and tell him  _ te quiero, te necesito, te deseo _ .  Instead, he watches Steve drink from a safe distance, watches him watch the party, and grins. 

 

“You really don’t care, do you?” he finally asks. 

 

David Bowie is playing.  Billy wants to pull him away from the wall and teach him to use his hips. 

 

“About what?” Steve frowns down at his can, fidgeting, lips pursed. 

 

“All this shit!” Billy says, but he really means  _ me _ .  “You don’t give a fuck about any of this, do you?  I thought maybe you were just… biding your time for the right moment.  Waiting to reclaim your title.”

 

Steve snorts and shakes his head.  “No. No, you can have it. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

 

“Level with me, Harrington.” Billy leans in, crowds in , drawn in like a  _ magnet _ \-- pressing impossibly closer.  “What the fuck happened to make you think that?”

 

Steve doesn’t reply.  His jaw winds tight. He drinks.  Billy watches his throat work. Wants to place his mouth there and  _ taste _ .  

 

Billy presses.  Prods. Tries to dig in  _ deeper _ under Steve’s skin.  It seems to be something he’s good at.  

 

But when Steve finally looks at him, there’s no fire in his eyes.  Just something cold. Something dead. A ghost in place of a man. 

 

“The world’s a lot bigger than... this ,” Steve says.  “A whole lot fucking bigger and a whole lot fucking more fucked up, okay?”

 

Steve’s laugh is bitter when he gives it. 

 

“You really wanna know what happened, Hargrove?  I stood at the gates of hell, stared the devil in the face, and burned the fucker alive.  This shit? Small change in comparison.”

 

_ You _ ? Steve’s eyes say,  _ Are nothing in comparison _ .  

 

Billy could buy it.  He really could. He believes it most days.  And it eats him up, the doubt, long enough to let Steve slip right through his fingers.  

 

***

The word is  _ obsession _ .  Billy is fixated.  The only pretty thing in Hawkins, Indiana, and Billy wants it in his hands.  Wants to see it crumble like so much else in his life-- knows it’s an inevitability, with hands like his-- and Steve’s at the center.  

 

Poor guy doesn’t know what he started, when he stared Billy in the face and didn’t back down that Halloween night, so long ago.  

 

So, when Billy finds him upstairs later, when he’s well on his way to  _ fucked _ and about to  _ get fucked _ , it’s like  _ Christmas _ all over again.  Because Steve’s already  _ shaking _ , already in  _ pieces _ , and Billy thinks he could push just right and watch the show with a smile on his face.  

 

But then he locks Shirley or Cheryl or  _ whatever her name is _ out of the room and he gets Steve into the bathroom and Steve  _ looks _ at him like he doesn’t expect  _ kindness _ and Billy feels something  _ churn _ in his chest. 

 

So, he’s  _ not _ kind.  He’s  _ mean _ , like he  _ always is _ , and Steve  _ bolts _ .  

 

So, he  _ chases _ .  Because that’s what he’s  _ good at _ .  

 

_ Draw me after you, let us run. _

 

He’s just never been real good at  _ catching _ what he wants. 

 

Still, he gets Steve in his car.  Gets him  _ screaming _ .  Screams right back, because he  _ can _ , and it’s like being  _ alive _ again.  Seeing Steve’s flush face when he shouts  _ it doesn’t fucking matter  _ at him.  Seeing his chest heave and his eyes  _ bright _ , brighter than the fucking  _ sun _ , and Billy’s  _ thrumming _ with it all.  With the heat of it.  With the  _ relief _ of sitting next to someone who  _ feels it _ , feels it  _ all _ , and swallows it down like a bitter pill--  _ just like him _ . 

 

Still, he gets to Harrington’s and watches him stumble out of the car, and there’s a sweet,  _ addictive _ taste in his mouth--  _ victory _ \-- and he wants  _ more _ .  

 

***

 

He  _ presses _ .  He presses and prods and he’s  _ shocked  _ when Steve  _ snaps _ .  He shouldn’t be, but he is.  

 

Worse, he feels  _ bad _ about it.  

 

He knows a little about things that make you walk around like you’re dead on your feet.  He knows a little about how  _ fragile _ the control to keep it all in is.  Still, he presses, and still, he’s surprised when Steve gets sick of it.  

 

So, he tries to be  _ nice _ .  Or, you know, as nice as he  _ can  _ be.  Billy hasn’t been  _ gentle _ since his mom died and his dad hit him for the first time.  

 

It works.  

 

***

 

“My car won’t start,” Billy says around the unlit end of his cigarette the second Steve walks up to him on a Friday, blizzard building around them, and he’s  _ hoping _ that Steve will play  _ knight in shining armor _ .  “Transmission’s frozen or some shit.”

 

“It’s probably your battery,” Steve says, mouth working, shoulders hanging, but Billy was  _ nice _ and it buys him some fucking points because then Steve says, “get in.”

 

Billy stomps around to the passenger side, climbing in and dusting himself off with a shudder.  He stamps out his cigarette in the ashtray, cupping his hands together and blowing into them. Steve watches him.

 

Billy’s relieved, but he’s not exactly gonna say  _ thank you _ . 

 

He puts up with the fact that Steve’s playing chauffer to a gaggle of preteens.  Puts up with the fact that he’s a  _ stickler _ about smoking in his car.  He thinks that’s  _ thank you  _ enough. 

 

He tunes most of the noise out, trying not to think of his dad getting pissed at him for something totally out of his control, like Max, until he hears Steve say he’s got  _ plans _ .  

 

“Plans, huh, Harrington?” Billy asks, because he can’t help himself, and he wants to see Steve turn pink.  “Like what? Spending your night alone with your right hand?”

 

“My left, actually.” 

 

Billy nearly swallows his own tongue.  Gets caught up in  _ thinking  _ about it.  Gets the sight of Steve’s left hand on his sizeable fucking prick and his right  _ somewhere else _ playing on a loop in his head until the kids drown it out with the sound of their  _ whining _ .  

 

Until Steve reaches out, thumps him on the chest, and he jumps because that touch alone is like  _ fire _ .  

 

Steve’s never reached out on his own.  And even if it  _ is _ for some little asswipe he doesn’t even  _ care _ about outside of keeping his ass from getting grilled by his dad for  _ letting _ Max hang with him, well-- that doesn’t  _ matter _ .  Because Steve reached out to  _ him _ .  

 

Billy turns away, crosses his arms, and runs his thumb over that spot until he feels it in his  _ bones _ .  

 

Lets that carry him through dealing with dropping off the kids.  Lets it carry him through getting to his place and trying not to feel  _ humiliated _ at the sight of it and the conversation before getting there--  _ racist _ , Steve called him,  _ asshole _ .  Lets it carry him through a stiff, stilted conversation with his father when he finds Steve sitting in his goddamn house-- when he left him in the  _ car _ \-- and feels  _ fear _ .  Marrow deep.  

 

Lets it carry him back into the car and down the road, Steve casting looks at him like Billy’s  _ blind _ , and even into-- 

 

“So, your dad is a bit of a hardass, isn’t he?”

 

And he hadn’t realized it, but that fear had anchored in him so deep that he’d been keyed up.  Wired. Ready to snap. 

 

But Steve’s not pressing.  Not like he does. Not really.  

 

Billy snorts, tension leaving him, bones only rattling with Steve’s touch and his  _ kindness _ , now, as he looks at him and  _ yearns _ .  “You’ve no idea, Harrington.”

 

Steve nods.  He doesn’t press. 

 

Billy’s grateful.  Grateful for this. For Steve sticking around as he starts up his car.  For the bit of  _ hope _ , however miniscule, Steve throws him when they’re done.  He’s grateful. 

 

He’s  _ so  _ fucking grateful.  

 

***

 

Billy’s not great at showing gratitude.  Add that to the unbearable fact that he’s a greedy motherfucker, and you get him panting for  _ more _ of Steve’s time.  Of Steve’s secrets.  Of Steve’s  _ everything _ . 

 

He keeps saying he wants to know what makes Steve  _ tick _ .  What makes him  _ burn _ .  But he’s starting to worry that he just wants to know  _ Steve _ .  

 

It makes him mean.  Makes that anger he carries in his chest boil to the surface.  Makes him shove Steve up against the side of his car when he tells him to  _ wait _ and makes him snarl in his face.  

He’s not perfect.  Never professed to be.  He’s allowed to fuck up.  

 

Steve’s nice enough not to hold it against him.  

 

Even if it feels like he’s making Billy jump through hoops just to get to know him better.  Making him apologize. Making him dig for the  _ right question _ .  Making him  _ wait _ .  

 

But when he sits across from Steve at the diner and watches him fold in on himself, like a flower wilting in winter, he feels bad for not doing  _ more _ .  For not making this  _ easier _ .  Knows that’s  _ on him _ , that he hasn’t made himself  _ likeable _ or  _ easy to talk to _ for Steve.  

 

Makes him feel bad for asking in the first place.  For wanting to know these secrets that don’t belong to him.  

 

He wants to give them back, the second they’re out of Steve’s mouth, so-- of course-- he sticks his foot in it.  

 

“Did you kill her?” he asks, after Steve’s unfolded the dark ache of his heart, the ghost girl that haunts him. 

 

Steve looks up sharp, from where he’s been staring at the table this entire time.  “ _ No _ !” 

 

“Then what’s the deal, Harrington?”  Billy frowns. “Why the fuck are you so torn up about this?”

 

“It-- She-- God, you really are a bastard.” 

 

And then Steve’s  _ running _ , again.  Always  _ running _ from Billy.  Like he can’t get far enough  _ away _ .  Like he doesn’t know by now that Billy’s a  _ predator _ and that he will always want to  _ chase him _ . 

 

But Billy knows that’s  _ his fault _ , too.  Knows he keeps  _ making  _ him run away. 

 

When he reaches him, he’s trembling by his car and trying to unlock it.  Billy digs  _ deep _ , finds something  _ soft _ that his mother planted in him long ago, and pulls it  _ up _ .  Presses it  _ forward _ .  Uses it to press close without a thought of  _ catching _ or  _ breaking _ .  

 

Places his hand, gentle-- more gentle than he thought he was capable of, anymore-- over Steve’s, and holds it there.  Waits for Steve’s breath to even. Keeps close until Steve stills and sucks in a sharp breath. 

 

“Easy, Harrington,” he says.  “C’mon. C’mere.”

 

He coaxes.  Careful and as kind as he can.  Takes Steve’s wrist and pulls. Guides him.  Ushers him into his car. Shuts the door quietly behind him before getting in himself.  

 

He blasts the heat once he’s in.  Turns and watches Steve stare at his knees.  Watches Steve tremble apart, like he might  _ cry _ , and Billy-- Billy doesn’t  _ want _ Steve to cry.   

 

Angry and spitting fire, sure.  But he doesn’t want him to  _ cry.  _

 

“You’re shaking,” he says.

 

“It’s cold,” Steve replies.

 

Billy bites down onto his tongue and gives.  Gives in because he won’t  _ win _ like this.  Steve won’t be  _ caught  _ like this.  

 

If he  _ wants him _ , he’ll have to  _ learn _ .  He’ll have to learn to be  _ soft _ and he doesn’t know  _ how _ .  

 

But he’ll  _ try _ .  

 

***

 

That first night in the junkyard, watching Steve destroy and break and scream, is like a revelation. It's fucking  _ biblical _ . 

 

He remembers, faintly,  _ Song of Solomon _ . Remembers words his mother read, from worn pages, and thinks:  _ You are altogether beautiful, my love, there is no flaw in you. _

 

Billy wants to  _ have him _ .  Right  _ there _ .  Right over the hood of that beat-up truck.  Wants to taste the fire in his mouth. Wants to  _ take him apart _ . 

 

He tears off his jacket,  _ burning _ , and holds out his hand for the crowbar, instead. 

 

“Give me that,” he says. 

 

Steve  _ smiles _ .  

 

_ There is no flaw in you _ . 

 

***

It takes a long time for Billy to realize he doesn’t want to  _ break _ him.  He doesn’t want to chase him down, conquer him,  _ own  _ him.  He just  _ wants  _ him.  

 

Wants his soft hands and softer smiles.  His lame jokes. His fire. He just wants him, warm and kind and a little broken.

 

Wants him in the most biblical sense of the word. 

 

It’s  _ terrifying _ .  

 

He does not think Steve could ever want him back. 

 

And yet, Billy still wants. Still longs. Still hungers for his touch. 

 

Even when it's only a careful touch to his bloody knuckles. A tentative ghost of fingertips against his bruised ribs. An arm slung around his neck in the halls. A press of his thigh to Steve's under the library table. A drag of fingers as they pass a joint. 

 

Billy's starved. He'll take what he can get. 

 

***

But then they're in the dark. In the dark, pressed close, the perfect place for secrets. 

 

_ Palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss _ .

 

And Billy knows, as his fingers thread through Steve's, just as he knew when Steve looked at him earlier in the high school parking lot and said  _ she's not my type _ and  _ we're good _ , that it meant more than what was. That this means  _ more _ . 

 

“Relax, Steve,” Billy says, thumb dragging over the soft skin on the back of Steve's hand. “I've got you.”

 

And that means more, too.

 

***

In the junkyard, in the safety of the dark, where Billy thinks his want is reflected in Steve's eyes, Billy wants to teach Steve to  _ dance _ .  Wants to pull him in by the hips, grind with him in the headlights like it's a bonfire, like they're barefoot on the beach. 

 

And Steve keeps saying his  _ name _ . Keeps saying it like a prayer.  Billy's never been a strong man; not under the weight of Steve's gaze, not in the dark. 

 

Steve's mouth on his is like fire. Like quiet. A hush so loud it rings in his ears. Makes his skin tingle and burn. 

 

When Steve pulls back, red faced and ashamed, Billy is helpless but to chase.

 

_ Draw me after you, let us run.  _

 

It's everything Billy's ever wanted. 

 

There is no Pedro, no Brian, no Oscar. No Rafael.  There is no past or future. There is nothing but now. Nothing but Steve's mouth on his--  _ God; Steve _ \-- and the breath they share between their lips--  _ holy. _

 

But then there is pain where there should be none. Pain and the memory that there pain has always followed love-- for him, at least.

 

For Steve, too, when he pulls away.  

 

Billy knows pain follows love; he can't bring Steve any more pain. Can't bring himself anymore, either. 

 

So-- he leaves. 

 

***

He  _ leaves _ .

 

***

 

Billy's never been good at letting go. Even when what he wants doesn't want him anymore. Even when he's the reason it's broken and angry. He can't leave well enough alone. 

 

An addict. A man obsessed.  _ A dog with a bone _ .  

 

But Steve won't open back up to him. Won't let him back in. 

 

Billy  _ hates  _ it. 

 

***

But mostly--  _ oh, mostly-- _ Billy hates  _ himself _ . 

 

***

He tries to wait it out. To see if they'll get back to some kind of  _ normal _ . 

 

It doesn't come. 

 

Not even at the junkyard.  Not even their safe haven. That place in the dark where Billy can show Steve his heart. 

 

Steve doesn't come.

 

***

Billy's never been good with words that matter. He's learned all manner of lies, in at least two languages, but the truth tangles his tongue. 

 

He can't tell Steve why he left. Can't tell him why his lips  _ burn _ at the very thought of him or that his body  _ shakes _ in fear of him. Can't express, in Spanish or English or anywhere in between, how much Steve  _ means _ and why that's so  _ awful _ . 

 

Hates himself more for it, for the way Steve shoves him away outside the liquor store and asks  _ did I matter _ ?  Hates himself for making Steve think, for even a moment, that he didn't. 

 

And that hate-- that  _ loathing--  _ makes itself known. Breaks Tommy's nose and bloodies his knuckles. Bruises and cracks him open.  Leaves him laid bare. 

 

Steve holds him until the hate drains back out of him. 

 

***

“I was scared,” Billy tells him, later, in the bathroom where he wants to kiss him and hold him, and that's about all he can tell him. 

 

Can't muster up the courage to tell him more. To tell him  _ why _ .  To tell him all the things he knows follows their kiss and this  _ love _ . This painful, terrible thing he can't keep. 

 

It's not enough, he knows.  _ I'm scared _ is not enough to glue them back together. 

 

But Steve-- Steve is endlessly kind. Unfalteringly beautiful. 

 

_ Tú eres guapo.  _

 

He takes what Billy will give him and offers exactly that in return. Takes what meager offerings Billy can place upon his altar and graciously offers his friendship back in return. Benevolent, far kinder than his mother's God.

 

Billy will take whatever he can get. Will learn to survive on it, on the scraps Steve will give him, if it only allows him to look upon him freely. 

 

Yes, Billy will take it. 

 

***

The problem is-- well, the  _ problem _ is that Billy's a greedy son of a bitch. Sitting back and watching as Steve  _ moves on _ hurts like a  _ bitch _ . 

 

_ Jenny _ and her bubble gum pink lips pressed to Steve's. It's  _ torture _ . It's not  _ fair _ .  

 

“I don't  _ share _ ,” he tells Steve. 

 

What's even worse is Steve's mouth pressing to his right after--  _ I am my beloved's, and his desire is for me.  _  It's Steve tasting like cigarettes and booze and  _ lipgloss _ .  It's Steve deserving to have more than what Billy can give him because he's too goddamn  _ scared _ . 

 

He's a  _ parigüayo _ ; always on the sidelines, too frightened to step forward and dance with who he wants in the harsh light of day. 

 

And Steve deserves  _ more. _ He deserves  _ everything.  _

 

So-- he leaves.

 

***

He  _ leaves _ . 

 

Runs far and runs fast. Runs  _ away _ . 

 

***

The ocean has never lied to him.  

 

When he was a boy-- or, at least, younger than he is now-- he would come here to clear his head.  Let the water run over his feet. Let it wash away the dirt and grime. 

 

He tries to let it wash away everything else, too.

 

But the ocean doesn't work that way. It won't carry anything away that he won't let go. 

 

Billy won't let go of Steve. 

 

He walks along the beaches-- minutes and hours and days-- and  _ tries _ , but he clutches too tight. Holds on too hard. Doesn't want to let them go. Doesn't want them to slip right through his hands and go crashing into the waves. 

 

Feels like he'd dive in after it if he lost his grasp. 

 

***

“ _ Pendejo _ ,” Rafael calls him, over beers and weed, bonfire licking at their toes, Billy's skin dark from the sun; Rafael's darker. “Did you lose your fuckin’  _ huevos _ ?”

 

Billy winces. Swallows down half a beer. 

 

He's been surfing off and on Rafael's couch since he got back. There's still a scar, from brow to jaw, from Neil's college ring on Rafael's face. Billy hates the reminder; Rafael doesn't seem to mind. 

 

“Seriously, man,” he says, nudging at Billy with his shoulder. “What the fuck are you still doin’ here?”

 

Billy doesn't even know. He always thought his heart was  _ here _ , in the firefight, by the sea. But there's a hole in his chest, ever since he left Hawkins. 

 

The entire ocean couldn't fill it. 

 

“I don't know,” Billy says. 

 

And he thinks of Steve's palm pressed to his in the dark. Thinks of his lips. His eyes. 

 

_ I will seek him whom my soul loves. _

 

Billy stares out at the sea. The waves black as they crash against the shore. Watches the wake recede.

 

“Guess it's time for me to go home.”

 

Rafael pats his shoulder. “Guess so.”

 

_ Draw me after you, let us run.  _

 

***

Steve is  _ gorgeous _ .  

 

Billy always knew that. Knew that Steve was the prettiest thing he ever laid eyes on--  _ tú eres guapo--  _ but seeing him again, seeing him standing there outside of the police station with an armful of coffee and those big eyes on him,  breaks his heart just as much as it fills him with joy. 

 

He looks good. In his jeans and his polo. His hair wild. His eyes bright; no dark circles, no ghosts haunting him, to be seen. 

 

Not even Billy's. 

 

He knows he has a lot to prove. Knows he has a lot to make up for. Hopes Steve will give him the chance to do it. 

 

It makes him itch to chase and chase and  _ chase _ . 

 

“Hey, pretty boy.”

 

***

 

_ Draw me after you, let us run. _   
  
  


  
  
  
  



End file.
